Sweet Daddy Professor
by ocean of rage
Summary: Hermione's eyes filled, unexpectedly, and she touched her cheeks in surprise. Severus Snape had made her cry, that right git. "Get out," she gasped out in a tearful voice. "I said get out. Or am I too unattractive for you to listen to?" Her lip curled in disgust over her teeth"I know I'm not Lily Evans. But do you?"
1. Chapter 1

**Sweet ****Daddy ****Professor**

One

Daddy Snape

He knew they whispering about the little boy on his hip, the blonde curls combed into submission for tonight's Sorting. Severus found he didn't care what the students or teachers thought of his child; they could rot in Hell with Voldemort for all he cared. He had Tristan and that was all that mattered; the little boy drooling on his shoulder was the center of his world.

"Hello, Severus," greeted a calm voice and he turned his head to find Hermione Granger, the new Defense teacher, standing there, dressed in simple black robes that were fitted modestly to her body. Her hair, tamed for this night only, gleamed tawny in the torchlight, pulled and wrestled into a French braid down her back that reached her knees. She was beaming at him and his child.

"Who's this?" she asked, waving her fingers at Tristan. "This is Tristan," Severus explained quietly, stroking the boy's soft hair, feeling him kick his feet slightly. Hermione conjured a handkerchief and dabbed at the drool on the baby's cheek; her cheeks flushing, she quickly tucked the cloth into Severus's pocket. "You're going to need it," was all she said as she let the baby curl his tiny, sweaty hands around her pointer finger.

"Where's the mother?" Severus groaned to himself. "She stepped out of the picture not long after the boy was born." Hastily apologizing, Hermione attempted to step back a little bit but only succeeded in tripping over the edge of her robes and falling flat on her butt.

He let a tiny smile of amusement catch across his lips before he leaned down and held out his hand. Wide-eyed, she gaped up at him with reddened cheeks. "Would you rather sit on the floor, Miss Granger?" he asked smoothly and was delighted to see her stutter something; her hand slid into his and it sent shockwaves down his spine. Tristan babbling in Severus's ear pulled him away from the shock of attraction and he yanked his arm back, bringing Hermione back to her feet with ease.

"You're very strong, Professor Snape," she said quietly as he eyeballed her openly, bouncing the boy on his hip. "Being a spy kept me fit," he replied, noticing she'd gained some weight that added to her womanly charms since the war. Her hands twisted, like she was nervous and he noticed the dotting of scars on the backs of her hands.

"Miss Granger," Severus found himself purring, stroking his son's hair gently, "would you be so kind as to conjure a high chair for Tristan? I seen to have my hands full at the moment."

Blinking at him, she did as she was told and a green-and-silver highchair with little plastic toys swirled into existence beside the Potion Master's chair. Chuckling slightly at her color choice, he sat the little boy down and Tristan almost immediately set about throwing the toys and squeezing the noisy plastic. When he threw a set of plastic car keys, it hit an invisible wall and danced in front of his eyes; he squealed loudly with delight.

"Interesting color choice," Severus murmured. Hermione let out a laugh, her tense shoulders relaxing. He found it very easy to talk to her; he was thankful that she'd grown out of the know-it-all phase. Much to his surprise, she told him what had become of her friends.

Ron and Lavender were due to be married in June; Luna took up an apprenticeship under Hagrid for Care of Magical Creatures; Neville was an aid for Herbology; Harry and Ginny were expecting their first child; and she, Hermione, single now, had been offered the Defense position.

"I still love Potions," she admitted, glancing about. Her hair looked golden when the light hit it. "And Charms." When she brushed her hand across her cheek, her sleeve slipped down to reveal silvery lines and a thick, puckered scar that read _Mudblood_. She glanced at him indifferently. "I'm not ashamed of it anymore," she explained, "I'm quite fond of it." She gave him a smile that made him stiffen slightly.

"And the other scars, Miss Granger?"

She looked him in the eyes. "I'm proud of them, too," she answered softly, never breaking eye contact. Something hit him in the head and he swung his gaze towards the direction; a toy wand lay next to his foot. Tristan babbled happily when his father picked it up but immediately quieted. "No throwing, Tristan," he said firmly.

When he turned back to Hermione, she was stroking the scars softly. "I'm not ashamed because I could've taken the permanent way out, suicide, Professor Snape. I didn't." He stared into her cinnamon-colored eyes, framed by long lashes. A smattering of freckles dusted her cheeks.

A loud explosion of chatter broke their conversation. First year gawked and gaped at the ceiling, the floating candles, the tables, the banners, everything.

Severus could hear Hermione say, as she was a first year so many years ago, that first night the Golden Trio came in, "It's enchanted to look like the sky. I read it in _Hogwarts: A History._" He reached over and pulled out her chair as she went to sit down; her cheeks went red and the blush crept down to the collar of her button up shirt and he wondered how far did the blush go.

Her ears were red like cherries and he wanted to just nibble them to see if they'd get even redder. She sank down gracefully and smiled up at him. "Thank you, Professor Snape."

"Your welcome, Miss Granger."

Another smile, this one as blinding as the morning sun. "Call me Hermione, please," she said. He bowed slightly. _Hermione indeed, _he mused as he slid into his seat and smiled at his son. Severus caught a glimpse of Hermione smiling almost lovingly at the child but he could barely contain his laughter when Tristan grabbed her hair and proceeded to play with it.

The first years scrambled for seats. Filch swung into the room, his dark, wary eyes scanning and then he hobbled out. Severus made a note to give the man some arthritis cream that soothed the aching in his bones.

As Albus rose, giving his first year speech, Severus found himself looking forward to the new school year with his son. And maybe, just maybe, Hermione Granger.


	2. Chapter 2

Sweet Professor

Two

Building a Bridge

Much to Hermione's surprise, Severus Snape was quite charming, with a dash of wit and humor, albeit a bit sharp and dark. He was so different than the man who taught her all those years ago. He smiled and chuckled and seemed generally more relaxed, human.

"I'll get him," she offered as the Sorting ended and Head Boy and Head Girl guided students to their rooms. Tristan had worn himself out playing and laid sleeping, mouth open, drooling in the most adorable way.

"If you don't mind," Severus responded quietly, picking up the boy's toys and Vanishing the high chair with a wave of his wand. Hermione scooped up her ex-teacher's son and stroked the soft, downy hair that curled all over his head. Maybe the boy was doing the "grouchy, snarky Potions Master" some good.

Her stomach twisted at the thought of children. Why had she been cursed so? Was it God's joke? "My son, Hermione, if you will," Severus spoke but she was reluctant to give up the beautiful baby.

Her heart ached viciously as she thought of Malfoy Manor and Bellatrix torturing her; turns out, being Crucioed that many times in such a short span, being beaten so fiercely, and the conditions she'd been living in had dropped her chances of fertility down to, oh, about zero percent. She knew she wasn't much of a maternal girl before the War but, with Voldemort gone, it seemed to the Gryffindor that everyone she knew was popping out babies.

And she'd never have the pleasure of doing so herself. "Hermione?" Ah, yes, Severus. She turned to him and he looked at her with something unreadable in his eyes. "Would you—"

"Walk Severus to his rooms?" mused a voice and Hermione turned, finding the Headmaster standing there, kind, blue eyes twinkling. If she didn't know any better, she would've thought he was up to something. Flashing a smile, she said, pleasantly, "Hello, Albus."

She heard a snort behind her but chose to ignore it, gently patting Tristan on the back while she rocked slowly, gently. He nestled deeper into her neck. "And who is this handsome young man?" asked the older wizard, a smile on his bearded face.

"Tristan, my son," Severus said. Hermione shot him a disapproving frown at his cold tone. "He's beautiful, isn't he?" she sighed, heart aching for something she could never have. "Yes. And when will you be having children, Miss Granger? Any special wiza—why the long face?"

"I can't have children." The whisper sounded broken and weak to her ears so she could only imagine how it must've sounded to her professors. "Oh, I'm terribly—" Albus began, looking a bit concerned and apologetic, but she cut him off, waving her hand flippantly.

"Bellatrix and those Snatchers did a number on me. My chances before, as infertility runs in my mother's side, weren't very strong." She shrugged, ignoring Severus's staring.

Forcing on a pleasant smile, she turned to him. "Shall we go, then? It was lovely seeing you, Albus." He chuckled and offered her a lemon drop. She dropped it into her pocket and the smile faltered the minute he gave her his back.

She couldn't get out of that place fast enough. Severus kept up with her, using long strides and, eventually, she slowed down, tension seeping out of her body as they walked down the corridor that led to the Slytherin's dungeons.

"I," Severus said, his voice quiet but nice, "had no idea, Hermione. I'm very sorry." She smiled. "It's fine. Besides, no man will want a woman who's infertile anyway. I need to focus on my teaching career." Though she tried to sound cheerful, she knew he didn't buy it.

"Hermione," he breathed as they walked close together, his hand brushing her hip, "I'd…" He cleared his throat. Brushed back his long hair with a thin, graceful hand that drew her attention away from walking. She could hear the murmur of his voice but didn't hear what he was saying; all she knew was that he was talking in that lovely voice of his and it sounded like dark chocolate, no, like something from one of her romance novels.

His hands had always fascinated her as a student and she'd always noticed how pale they were. Dotted with calluses from botched potions and fingernails stained from ingredients. They were sure and never faltered, so precise in anything he did, whether it was grading papers or slicing up Mandrake roots.

"Hermione."

She tuned back in and realized they were at his quarters. Cheeks flaming, she handed off Tristan to his father, who took the sleeping boy and rested him on his bony hip. "I really am sorry to hear about your misfortune. And having children shouldn't such a big deal in a witch's life."

Hermione shrugged.

"I just…want to be a mother, watch my child grow up and go to school and become successful," she said. Severus's dark eyes watched her, searching and probing and she felt her entire body heat up.

"You're very intelligent. Being a mother…well, that child would certainly have their hands full." He gave one of his rare smiles, which she'd only seen once or twice that evening, and unlocked the door. Kicking it open, he stuck his foot in the space between the frame and edge of the door and turned to her.

"Miss—"

He stopped. Turned a bit red in the cheeks. "_Hermione_, if you wish to…assist me in raising my son, or just visit…become friends even—" He made a strange face that made her laugh. "—Than I'd be happy, welcome it even. And the part about wizard's not wanting you because you're infertile?"

His heated look shot straight through her tummy. "That's complete and utter rubbish. Any wizard would be lucky to have such a lovely witch." He turned and nudged the door open with his knee.

"Goodnight, Hermione," Severus whispered over his shoulder and she thought she saw Tristan's hand wave at her in a farewell as the door closed.


	3. Chapter 3

Sweet Daddy Professor

Three

New Term

On the first day of the new term, Severus was looking forward to the morning breakfast—or, more accurately, the bushy-haired witch that he'd certainly see. She was charming to talk with and provided a refreshing, intelligent aspect to everything, whether it be Quidditch and the winning teams or the effect of aftershocks of the War on citizens, Muggle and Wizard and others. On the plus side, she wasn't horribly unappealing to the eyes.

She'd filled out into those slightly bucked teeth of hers and held a very curvy figure; although, no doubt the little witch was thinking she could lose weight. He didn't mind her curves one bit; in fact, he'd found his mind wandering to dark, forbidden places he hadn't let out since his son's mother left.

Tongue in cheek, he pulled himself nude from the sheets and headed for the bath, trying hard not to stare at himself for too long. He knew the parchment pale skin and course black hair that covered it; he knew the scars on his thighs and stomach and back that had yet to fade; he hated them with a burning, bubbling passion. He closed his eyes and saw the memories flicker across the backs of his lids as the water warmed.

His son would wake up and he'd have to take him with him.

He sank into the burning water and let the heat wash over him, hot and sharp and bright, as he tried not to drown in horrible memories.

oOo

His wet hair pulled back into a bun and secured with a thick, leather strap, Severus dressed in a simple button down and black slacks as Tristan woke in the next room loudly. Pulling on his shoes, the Dark wizard made his way to his son and bathed him gently, allowing him to wake completely as he combed the out of control curls and out of the bath and into clean clothes.

With Tristan, half-asleep still, balanced on his bony hip, the potions master unwarded his door and headed out, warding it back up as he started down to the Great Hall for breakfast. Hopefully, Hermione Granger would be there.

oOo

It was as he was setting Tristan in a high chair that Hermione showed up, wearing a pink sweater and jeans, curls nearly swallowing her face. She was carrying a leather-bound journal under one arm and a winter coat in the other. Obviously, she'd been out and about in Hogsmeade; her cheeks and nose were flushed as were the tips of her ears. "Good morning," she called to everyone as she settled into her seat, next to Severus, and ordered eggs and steak.

She set the journal down and laid her coat across her lap, looking wide-eyed and refreshed; Severus tore his eyes away as Tristan ate cereal out of a bowl, pieces sticking to his chubby cheeks. Every day, he grew and resembled his absent mother more and more, with her pale hair and his dark eyes. She was beautiful and so was his son. Closing his eyes, he pressed the mug of coffee to his lips and blocked out the painful heartache with fresh thoughts. How would he portray himself this year? Cling to the old, "greasy bat of the dungeons" and be as hard as possible on his classes? Create a new, perhaps more pleasant persona for his students?

He thought back to when Harry Potter had sat in his class, looking like the man he hated while staring at him with the wide, beautiful eyes of the woman who'd extended her hand in friendship and tore him in two. The twit had been writing down Severus's speech when he called him out and looked at him, wide-eyed and startled, like a fledgling with his tousled hair.

He hated him immediately; his father had been a bastard and so would his son, surely. Unfortunately, he'd been dead wrong; the boy's parents had died that fateful night and he knew nothing of the Wizarding world his parents grew up in; his uncle and aunt had abused him, starving him regularly, treating him unkindly, hardly giving him any of necessities he'd need but, in all retrospect, it was that damn Petunia's fault. Because _her_ parents had just about forgot about their Muggle daughter and fawned over their witch one, she'd lied and mistreated Harry and hated him for what he was.

Something sour rose in Severus's throat. He knew too much of that feeling. A memory, one his first, were his parents arguing over whether or not Severus would be included in his mother's world; his father was dead set against it, claiming no son of his would be in that devil's work world.

"Severus, are you okay?"

Blinking hard, he turned and saw Albus Dumbledore sitting there, looking at him with pale blue eyes over his spectacles, a worried expression dominating his normally friendly face. "I'm fine." The lie slipped out without much thought and he saw Minerva McGonagall's pinched mouth, telling him she didn't believe him; from the look in those milky blue eyes, neither did Albus. Clearing his throat, Severus turned to his son.

Tristan was busy pinching out fistfuls of Cheerios and Hermione cutting her steak into tiny pieces and eating them with her eggs. When she looked up, Severus's eyes met hers. Pieces of egg clung to her lip and he smirked as she went red-faced and turned away, coughing into her napkin.

As Rolanda Hooch and Aurora Sinistra patted her back, Severus turned away and bit into his English muffin.

It had grown cold.

oOo

The first years filed in, glancing around at the newly renovated dungeon. He'd added windows to let the light in more and added tiles on the floor and tucked away his "creepy" jars (Albus had told him several times that they scared the crap out of the first years), leaving only a few on the shelves and replacing the missing ones with jars of dried leaves and hairs and fangs.

Standing behind his desk, he watched them scramble for seats and, with the flick of his wrist, wrote several potions. Wolfsbane. Amortenia. Draught of Living Death. Veritaserum. Bloodroot. Calming Draught. Bracing himself on the desk, he looked at the faces, round and childish, new to the world of magic.

The years after the war were horrible, especially the first two. People mourning and crying and having funerals. There was his trial, where Albus had appeared and he'd been found not guilty; his throat's scars had yet to disappear.

Unconsciously, he rubbed the familiar pinpricks and saw many of the students staring. _Time to recreate yourself, Severus, _he told himself and straightened up, scanning the wide eyes. "My name, as most of your know, is Snape. Professor Snape for you. I am the Potions teacher." _Be calm and collected, _he told himself and took another breath to steady his racing heart.

"[1]I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses."

Severus waved his hands slowly, like a conductor for an orchestra and several jars floated down from the shelves. With a snap of his fingers, and a sharp cloud of smoke, they took forms of their base ingredients, roots and fangs and fantastic beasts. Over the forms of the ingredients, he met the students' wide eyes.

Speaking in a slow voice that ensnared their attention, he continued. "[2] I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper _death_—_if _you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads that I normally teach."

Several of them squirmed and he let a smile crawl across his lips.

"Shall we begin? Let's see how much you know about potions."

* * *

><p>[1] <em>Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone © JK Rowling <em>

[2] _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone © JK Rowling _


	4. Chapter 4

Sweet Daddy Professor

Four

The Lakeside

Working at Hogwarts was surprisingly nerve wracking. Every day, the sleepy-eyed students shuffled in and lessons started. Hermione taught them simple spells first, something that the eleven through seventeen year olds should've been able to manage but after several exploding cauldrons and near fires, she wasn't quite sure.

Sighing to herself, she headed down to the Great Lake, her feet dragging through the ankle-length grass. A breeze cut across the lawn and rustled the still green trees, sending leaves to the glossy surface of the water. The smell of far-away smoke tinged the air pleasantly and she closed her eyes. "Oh, come now," she murmured to herself, lowering to the ground and throwing a few blades of grass into the lake and watching the ripples expand, pushing to the outer edges of the water. Transfixed, she let her mind wander.

Surely, Ginny was a few weeks shy of her predicted due date. Hermione's head lowered as her stomach twisted sharply at the thought of children, of carrying a man's child inside of her belly, swollen and a heartbeat bumping her fingers. She recalled how happy Ginny had been, cheeks flushed and belly slim still, holding the doctor's results. "Pregnant," she'd screamed so shrilly, that it had everyone's ears ringing for days.

Smiling sadly, Hermione pressed her knees against her eyes. Around her, the air was quiet, gentle. In the Great Hall, kids shrieked and played over the long tables, ignoring their lunches. The noise gave her a giant headache, her brain bubbling and gurgling, exploding in a leaky mess of blood and brain matter, leaking out her ears and her eyes. Instead of tears, her face gleamed with clear blood. When she turned her head, everything sloshed.

A loud squeal, incredibly close, made her lift her head. Severus sat on the opposite side of the Great Lake with his son, watching the boy throw pieces of bread into the water as the Giant Squid slapped it tentacles gently, creating small waves that rippled about the surface tranquilly. Tristan's curls gleamed blonde-white in the sun and, if she squinted hard enough, she could see the pointed chin that was common amongst the Malfoys. But then she blinked and the similarity was gone, replaced with Severus's burning, dark eyes and inky curtain of hair. He was watching her calmly, his gaze flicking between his child and her, as if he wanted to keep an eye out for both.

Her head pounded sharply as a child shrieked in the Great Hall, far too shrill to be appropriate. Hermione's eyes brimmed as her skull exploded into a million fragments, shards gouging into her eyes. Tristan squealed again, clapping his hands. She watched him for a second, his hair blindingly white like an old man's before she pushed herself to her feet. "Tristan!" Severus yelled as she heard a splash and a scream being cut off.

"_Expecto Patronum!" _Hermione's Patronus bounded across the lake, wiggling a bit before it dove down into the depths. She kicked off her shoes, ignoring the crowd gathering behind her. Wand clenched between her teeth, she took a running start and leapt, slicing through the icy water. Her lungs burned for oxygen the minute she hit the liquid but she kept going, squinting passed the seaweed and her own hair.

Something yanked on her leg and her brain fired out a quick _stupefy_. A dark lump of a creature floated to the bottom. Shaking herself, Hermione looked around for her Patronus, spotting it not too far off. Kicking her legs hard, she pushed through the churning water and caught a glimpse of something yellow. An ugly creature, a Grindylow, hissed at her as it yanked the unmoving boy closer to it.

A quick _stupefy _loosened its hold and Hermione rushed forward, catching the drifting boy in her arms. _Please, be alive, _she thought dimly as she tapped the heel of her feet and a great burst of energy propelled her up. Once she broke the surface, someone grabbed the boy from her arms and she placed a hand on the grass. Several whispers reached her ears as she pushed back her sopping bangs. Severus's black eyes were unfocused as Madame Pomfrey worked over his son, gently coaxing the water from his lungs.

Color flooded the blonde's face. A wave of relief hit Hermione hard, knocking the breath from her lungs. No, actually, it was a true wave, slapping her hard in the back. She sputtered for air.

Something cold and sharp coiled around her leg and she turned, her eyes aching. Water streamed down her face as she struggled for her wand, attempting to dislodge the angry Grindylow from her calf. Calmly, Severus stepped away and knelt down beside her, his wand brushing the curve just above her butt with one arm around her midsection. Despite herself, she shivered against his lean, warm frame as he stupefied the creature and pulled her up onto shore.

The late summer sun warmed her cold skin and she lay on her back, sucking in deep mouthfuls of air. "Thank you," she murmured as a headache split her skull in two. Fragments wedged themselves deep behind the pits of her eyes and a fierce crest of exhaustion swept over her, washing away any energy she had. Her blouse had grown see through, showing off her black bra and her pencil skirt was painfully chaffing her under thighs. Her underwear was soaked. Every piece of fabric on her body clung to her, accenting her figure and chaffing her sensitive skin.

"Are you okay?" Minerva asked, peering down at Hermione. It was on the tip of the girl's tongue to say _yes, I'm perfectly fine, just a bit tired _but found she had none of the strength or energy to do so. Instead of answering, the Defense teacher rolled onto her stomach, pushed herself to her knees and wobbly made her way to her feet. The cool grass felt wonderful on her bare toes.

Spotting her shoes amongst the students, she murmured a quiet "_Accio _shoes," and they flew into her waiting hand. Her brain was bleeding in places they couldn't see. Her legs ached and her underwear was riding up her butt. "Hermione, dear—" It was Minerva, again, trying to get in her way.

Hermione sidestepped the multiplicity of students, brushed some twigs from her damp curls, and continued on her way to the castle. Her head pounded with shards of glass. The stone floor was cold under her toes.

She didn't start crying until she reached her chambers, sobs wracking her body as she sat under the spray of hot water.

Her head was killing her.


	5. Chapter 5

Sweet Daddy Professor

Five

Memory Lane Burning

Friday nights, Hermione went on dates. Mostly, she came back before seven and retired to her rooms for the rest of the night. Tonight, however, Severus found himself sitting in the Great Hall at around eight after putting Tristan to bed and sitting across from a bare-foot Hermione Granger, still dressed in her form-fitting robes but her hair was natural, not forced into unison curls as it had been at five-thirty, and her makeup was gone.

"I know you hate me," she said quietly, gripping her cup tightly with white knuckles. She looked tired and drained, pale like parchment. There were grey shadows under her eyes, like she hadn't slept in days; her curls frizzy and wild, more than usual. Her robes were wrinkled and there were faint flecks of mascara on her flushed cheeks.

Severus shook his head. "No," he told her softly, "I don't." He glanced down at his cup, twisting it back and forth in his hands. "I really don't." He watched the tea in his cup slosh around. "He was so rude," she muttered, twisting a curl around her finger. "I bet. You only come home in tears when the guy's rude," he offered absently, dragging his spoon through his cool tea. When he chanced a glance up, Hermione was staring at him. She sat up a little straighter, scooting to the edge of her seat. In the dim light, she looked exotic, almost like a foreign priestess.

"You noticed?" she asked in a tiny voice. _Of course. _"Yeah. Minerva always asks me if you're alright," he muttered, biting the inside of his cheek. "Thank you," she breathed as her voice broke. When she looked into his eyes, they were gleaming with tears. He felt taken aback, pulling away slightly and tucking his elbows in against his sides. Head angled down, he squirmed slightly. "Don't," he grumbled, digging the sharp edge of the slightly chipped handle into his thumb. "Don't thank me. I don't deserve it."

What was wrong with him tonight? It felt like all his old habits were coming back; all the bitterness and self-hatred and loathing was coming back in a wild rush. His stomach twisted sharply, like a knife being thrust in to the hilt—he knew all too well what that felt like—and he tried to breathe passed it.

"You do." Her hand slithered across the table and touched his, fingertips on his knuckles. "Good-night," he said shortly and pushed to his feet. He swayed for a brief second and quickly locked his knees, cutting off the slightly tremors before they completely took hold. "Sev—" she began, leveling her balance as she got to her feet as well but he shook his head. "I need to sleep as do you," he explained softly, "so good-night, Hermione."

He could feel her staring at him, eyes boring holes, but was immensely relieved when she didn't try to pursue him. He was one hundred percent certain if she had chased after him and confronted him, all his pitch-black horrors would spill out and devour the light she radiated. His temples pounded with a brewing migraine as he waved his hand, unwarding the doors to his chambers. It was dark cool as he stripped out of his shirt slowly, passing his son's quiet room. Poking his head in, he saw Tristan fast asleep, curls silvery in the moonlight, and smiled sadly at his child, so beautiful and quiet, striking and pale, just like his mother.

He blinked hard as he ducked inside, walking closer and closer. Every step was muffled with carpet, socks dragging against the fibers; his weight was making the floor squeak. _My beautiful baby, _he thought dimly as he stared down. The boy's mother hadn't been more than a fling but this boy…his boy…was his entire world. No one else mattered. If it weren't for the little bundle of joy, he would've offed himself so many years ago.

When he lost to James Potter, that was devastating; somehow, the idea of his son not being in his life was worse. It made his blood run cold, heart stomping on his ribcage and smashing the bones to shards. He stroked Tristan's pale curls, soft and silky like rabbit fur, falling apart water in his fingers, strands breaking away from each other. _I love you so much, _he thought, pressing a firm kiss to the boy's pale forehead and watching as his child stirred, cooing in his sleep.

Severus slinked out quietly, socked feet whispering on the carpet as he glided to his room, listening to the still sounds of the dead house around him. There were no screaming children, hopping about the dorms and crashing back down to earth, plaster crumbling down onto him; there were no cries of injured buffoons, careless in their studies and horsing around instead of paying attention; no papers rustling and fires crackling while he graded dreadful scrawl; no ingredients needing to be diced or sliced or stripped of coarse hair; no obnoxious, brainless chatter form his colleagues (if you could call them that), talking about anything and everything, just to fill the painful silence that was awkward, filling it with their squawking voices and forced laughter.

Severus unbuttoned his frock slowly, keeping his eyes on the clock. It was barely nine, a cool darkness creeping down outside, bleeding out the pale blue of daylight. The children were fast asleep (or at least very quiet if they weren't) and he found himself wishing for that noise, shrill laughter and screaming and a mindless cacophony of voices, to fill his brain, pushing away the cold, bloody memories of the war. Every night, it was the same. Normally, it didn't hit him until around ten, when he was expecting it and had a Dreamless Draught at the ready, gleaming in the dim light of nighttime.

He pushed the frock down his bony shoulders, listening the fabric rustle. A painful pounding brewed behind his eyes, slowly burning as his fingers deftly unbuttoned his shirt and joined the frock on the floor. His pants slid down next. Shaky hands searched from the potion until they hit the glass vial. He popped open the cap with his thumbnail and downed the contents.

Clad only his shorts, he crawled under the covers and laid on his back, hands clasped on his stomach much like a funeral corpse. He closed his aching eyes and waited for that pitch-black softness to coil around him, drowning out all the noise and life.

It came swiftly, in a great tidal wave, and he drowned.


	6. Chapter 6

Sweet Daddy Professor

Six

Sleep

When Severus woke, his head was pounding, blood thumping in his temples, and his son's cries, shrill and piercing, stabbing at his eardrums. He winced and started to pull himself upright as Tristan's cries grew louder and louder until, suddenly, it dwindled to a soft gurgling and little laughs. Severus stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, listening to the sudden silence with closed eyes, before he forced himself up. Pieces of sleep-tousled hair fell into his face, tickling his skin as he bolted, filled abruptly with panic.

Normally, Tristan didn't stop screaming until Severus stepped into the room to calm him down, to stroke his hair and kiss away the tears. Now, it was deathly silent, and his heart was pounding. Why had his child's screaming stopped? He shot to his feet, ignoring the rush of nausea from rising too fast, and stalked to the door, ripping the door open. The hallway was dark and dimly lit, making the route to Tristan's room even longer.

His knee connected with a table, knocking something to the floor with a thud, and he flinched, hands flying to brace himself, to hold him up. A door opened, closed. His wand flew up, lips forming the spell before his brain caught up to him—_lumos_—and he saw the huge, cinnamon eyes of a very curvy witch, holding his son against her heavy breasts. "S-Severus," she sputtered, bouncing Tristan, who sleepily lifted his head, a string of drool following his little mouth, and then he fell back asleep against Hermione's shoulder.

They stood there for a long pause, his knee throbbing, hand trembling, and then her long, short-nailed fingers curled around his wand tip silkily and lowered it smoothly, effectively disarming him. "Give me my son," he demanded, sliding his wand back into his sleeve. Hermione shook her head. "You need your sleep. Albus sent me down and gave me the password." She smiled wryly. "That doesn't explain why you have my son," he answered shortly, his tone dry as he reached for the blonde boy.

"Albus and Minerva are worried about your sleep habits. Did you really think you could keep them from meddling?" She stroked Tristan's duckling curls and turned her back to him; for a short minute, he wanted to be a dishonorable man and throw a spell at her back, if not just for the hell of it. "They meddled when I was a little buck-toothed girl here; they'll surely meddle when I'm a teacher." She tossed a smile at him over her shoulder. He followed her into the main chambers, where she snapped her fingers and a house elf swirled into existence beside her, a tiny little thing with big, puppy-dog blue eyes and a tiny t-shirt.

"May we have some tea and pasties?" she asked and the elf nodded before zapping back to the kitchens to do as it was asked; what happened to the little girl with her whole Spew argument, refusing to use the house elves? His thoughts must've been splashed all over his face because she smiled at him in an amused manner. "I have no qualms about using them now. What a naïve little girl I was." She laughed as she sat down, rocking Tristan.

"Sit. I suppose you'll want to know how this came about—" She nodded her chin at the boy in her arms. "Albus sent me. He wants me to take care of Tristan while you sleep with Dreamless Draught. You need your sleep." She bounced her knees and Tristan gurgled sleepily. "My son, Hermione," Severus said, holding his arms out for the little boy. She smiled and stood, rocking him still before sliding the blonde into the man's arms gently.

"You look exhausted." It wasn't a compliment; it was a statement. He knew about the dark circles under his eyes from waking up in the middle of the night to Tristan's crying, from tossing and turning during his nightmares. He stroked the blonde curls away from his son's forehead gently. "I'm fine." "Severus, you—" she began but the little house elf winked beside her. "Thank you." Another smile. The elf bowed, mumbling something about "honor to serve" and then vanished in a wisp of residual magic.

She picked up a tea cup and stirred a few spoonfuls of sugar into her drink. "While I appreciate the concern," Severus said over the lip of his cup, "it's unwarranted. I will ask for help, when I do see myself fit for it." He managed a stern glare over his drink as he took a sip of the sharp tang of black tea. Tristan's curls tickled the underside of his chin, soft and downy like a duckling's feathers, silky. "I am very much capable of taking care of my son. I have been fine since the mother left; I will _certainly _survive without you."

He tried to keep his voice calm and light but his old mocking tone—sharp and authoritative—slipped in despite his best attempts. Hermione's face flickered with surprise and a little bit of anger, but she simply turned back to her tea with calm eyes. "I see," she told him softly, peeking at him from under her long, ash-brown eyelashes. A long pause. "Of course, Severus. I thought you may have wanted—"

"You don't know _what _I want for my son."

They stared at each other, into their eyes. "I'll be taking my leave, then," she said, rising to her feet fluidly. He felt a sharp twinge in his chest at having hurt her but his thoughts were shattered when Tristan when he began to squirm, turning his head this way and that way.

Over his growing wails, Hermione dipped her head in acknowledgement to Severus and turned. Her robes swayed. "Good bye," she murmured. Tristan's face became redder and redder as he grew closer to consciousness, waving his arms around. He beat his little, chubby fists all about. "I won't bother you." Her smile was sad and didn't reach her brown-sugar eyes as she pulled open the door.

Severus watched her leave, torchlight gleaming off her hair, making it look honey-gold as she closed the door quietly behind her. Cold prickles rushed down his spine as Tristan continued with his blood curdling screaming, beet-red in the face now.

The dark-haired wizard pressed his thin lips to his son's pale, unwrinkled forehead.


	7. Chapter 7

Sweet Daddy Professor

Dead Rise

* * *

><p>His nightmares were getting worse. Anyone who chanced a glance at the quiet potions master could see that: his listless eyes hugged by deep purple shadows from sleepless nights, the way he stared off into the distance constantly as though he were daydreaming, his sluggish movements far more choppy and graceless. Merlin, he even fell asleep during breakfast, his head flopping forward, slumped over his porridge and his spoon leaving a streak of food across his cheek. Minerva and Rolanda whispered quietly behind their hands. Pomona and Rubeus stared in surprise; Filius snickered softly.<p>

Hermione gently touched Severus's elbow and he jolted awake, his eyes wild and huge as he took in his surroundings. Some of the children who weren't half-asleep themselves in their food laughed. Immediately, the Ex-Death Eater wiped off his cheek and scowled down his nose at the little brats, who went paper-white and turned their attention back to their food. He'd missed a spot on his face. "How have you been sleeping?" asked Albus as he leaned over his Shepard's pie, cutting his pale eyes to Hermione. The witch rolled her eyes as the dour professor sat up straighter, his hands trembling ever so slightly. His rage was almost palpable, his intense eyes cutting lacerations into Albus's cheery expression.

_He's doing it on purpose, _Hermione thought, frowning behind Severus's bony shoulder as she watched them. Albus was playing on a very thin thread as Severus's anger skyrocketed. He stood up clumsily, an imposing figure draped in thick, black fabric, and even Hermione felt a shiver roll down her spine. Despite his obvious lack of sleep, he was a sight to behold, still dangerous, still vicious-looking: long, shiny black hair that hung at the nape of his neck, skin as white as snow, and intense, narrowing black eyes. How many times had she sat there while her best friends had been on the receiving end too many times of his rage, meekly watching him from behind her mass of hair? "Severus," Hermione said, and his head swung towards her, his eyes dark, too dark to be natural, nearly pitch-black, and she had to swallow the fear that rose somewhere from her childhood, sitting under his glare, "you missed some of your porridge."

Unable to help herself, she rose beside him (his eyes never left her face) and wiped off the splotch with her thumb. Behind her, faintly, she could hear Rolanda snicker in that raspy voice of hers and Severus's cold, white fingers wrapped around her wrist painfully tight. Cheeks flaming, Hermione ducked her head down, embarrassed, and become startlingly aware of the pain in her arm at his grip. They both looked down, him over his massive, hawkish nose, her passed her untamable curls, and he let her go. A little fire sizzled in her skin. "Pardon me, Miss Granger," he apologized softly, barely audible but his eyes softened the tiniest bit. With a flourish of his robes and a stiff nod at her, he left.

Once the massive doors swung shut behind him, whispers erupted and she stared after him. Beneath the sleeve of her teaching robes, her wrist was on fire, throbbing with her pulse. Minerva shot her a worried look. "I'm fine," Hermione said to no one in particular. Albus's smile had never slipped, and she found a tiny bit of comfort in that; had Severus truly hurt her, she was pretty sure (at least ninety-nine point nine percent) that Albus wouldn't hesitated to disengage them.

Minerva's pinched expression made Hermione's certainty waver.

oOo

There was a knocking on the doorframe of the Defense classroom and she looked up from grading this week's quiz on the Unforgivable curses and the consequences and history. Of course, her students had groaned and bitched about it, but they all studied her notes and most of them had faired rather well. Her pot of red ink (dyed with cherry preserves) wasn't even a quarter of the way gone and she didn't have any smudges of it on her face.

Standing in the doorway, holding a white container of something resembling Vaseline, was Severus. His hair was tied back, accenting his wide forehead and sharp eyebrows. His cheekbones cast purple-grey shadows across the hollows of his cheeks. He strode forward without waiting for an invitation in, and that ruled out the students' rumors that he was a vampire; of course, as he passed each slant of light, his skin didn't show off facets of diamonds embedded in the surface also disproved that.

"Hello," she said to him, "what brings you out of your cave?" She tried for a smile but it came out as a grimace. The container clattered onto the wood of her desk and she squinted down at it. "Salve for bruises," he told her and it took a few minutes for the information to fully sink into her noggin. "My wrist is fine," she sputtered, even though it was a lie, and he reached over calmly, in one quick, fluid motion, and drew back her sleeve. Her wrist was sun-tanned but, even so, the red marks in the shape of Severus's long, spidery fingers could be seen faintly.

"It's not that bad," she argued. He cocked a thick, dark brow at her flimsy excuse. "I wasn't thinking. Forgive me for harming you." They stared at each other. "She's haunting you, isn't she? In your dreams. I know that you found her, stumbled across her lying in front of Harry's crib—"

"Miss Granger," he snapped but she was on a roll.

"Severus, your ghosts are affecting your health. It's worse than the last year before the big battle. I can see it in your eyes. Your hands constantly tremble. You look so faraway, I can hardly stand it." She struggled to blink away the heat in her eyes. Something splattered down onto the roll of parchment she'd been grading, seeping the messy scrawl of the third year.

"Miss Granger, if I want your help, I will ask for it." He bowed stiffly and swept away, reminding her of earlier. "My door is always open, Severus."

This time, her smile was a smile.


	8. Chapter 8

Sweet Daddy Professor

Eight

Sleep Tight, Darling

Severus had just laid Tristan to bed one night when it hit him out of nowhere. It knocked the breath out of his lungs and his legs out from under him, sending him to his knees. _Christ, _he thought dimly as he struggled to his feet, his bones cracking and creaking with age. His back protested and he had to remind himself that he'd been tortured and lived through a war, one of the worst he'd ever heard of in the wizarding world. The next wave hit him in the gut as he crawled out of his son's room. It came in the form of Lily, her arms open for him, a slow smile on her beautiful, shining face. _You're dead, _he told himself, ignoring the way the old wound flared and throbbed, _and you aren't mine. _The vision blew away, replaced by a terrifying beast, with slimy grey skin and breath that reeked of rotting flesh, its eyes gleaming when it roared and flashed blood-stained teeth. It vomited a puddle of black goo onto the floor, thick and gloppy. The beast inched back into the shadows of the room. Severus wanted so badly to pull himself off the floor, to whip out his wand to fight whatever this was, but his limbs were weighed down with cement bricks and his eyes kept closing and when he'd open them, the black glob would still be shaping itself.

He tried to kick his legs, to maybe scoot himself forward, and he couldn't concentrate. His thoughts were everywhere, thinking of everyone. The final time he woke up, the ink blob was nowhere to be seen; instead, a little girl with sad green eyes and lank black hair stared back at him. She was sallow-skinned, with a tiny mouth and skeletal figure, her skinny hands drumming against her skin. "Daddy," she whispered, her eyes wide and sunken against her tiny face, "you let Mommy die." He struggled to blink away the hallucination, because he finally knew that his days without sleep were catching up with him, and faintly heard the quiet pop of a house elf.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from the little girl with Lily's green eyes, his child, the same one from the Mirror of Erised. "Severus?" called a voice after what felt like hours; he woke up with a jolt and hit his face on the leg of the table. Several loud footsteps clomped down the hallway. A door creaked open. In his room, Tristan began to wail. Minerva was the first to spot Severus and knelt down beside him with Poppy, her face pinched and white. Behind them was Hermione, clutching the hem of her nightgown in her hand, which hugged every curve he noticed absently, and then she was heading straight for him, her wrist still pink from where he'd grabbed it the other day.

"I'll get Tristan," she whispered and her sleepy face was grim and lined and her eyes were full of the world's sadness as she glanced down at him. She opened the door and slipped inside and Tristan quieted after a little while. Severus let his head fall back as Poppy clucked her tongue at him. "Severus, my boy, you need to take better care of yourself," she said, squeezing his hand as she tipped a little vial against his mouth. He could feel his muscles loosening, relaxing, the medicine coursing through his veins. His eyelids drooped as the door to Tristan's room opened and Hermione slithered out, a tiny smile on her pink mouth. _I want to see if her mouth tastes like bubblegum, _he realized and everyone stared at him in surprise. It took him a minute to realize he'd _said _it out _loud. _Shit.

He tried to sit up but his muscles refused to cooperate, demanding sleep instead. Hermione's cinnamon eyes met his and she smiled, touching her lips and biting the lower one with an amused expression. Unable to fight the drowsiness any longer, he finally let his eyes close and the darkness rose in a wall to meet him.

oOo

Slants of warm light cut across the dark expanse, turning it bright pink with rivers of yellow and blue. Sounds hit his ears: someone coughing, the shuffle of fabric, the soft pitter-patter of footsteps. "You fool," a soft voice whispered, thick with emotion, and he was surprised to find he recognized the gentle tones. Something creaked, maybe upholstery. The swish of stockings. Something rustled, paper. He took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of drying ink and warm parchment. Hermione.

"I told you my door was open, did I not? Sure, you're proud but putting off sleep for that long…you could've hurt someone." Soft, trembling fingers touched his, traced up to his wrist and closed around the width. He let his fingers twitch in response and he felt her tense up, her heartbeat drumming in her veins against his arm. "Don't do this again," she pleaded, her voice breaking in all the right places. He pretended to stir slightly. "Please, Sev, don't make us go through this. All of us. Poppy, Minerva, hell, even Harry dropped by when he heard the news and you know how busy he is with Ginny and the boys." More rustling. Something screeched. Probably the chair.

Both hands were clasping his now, as though they were good friends and this was casual. He frowned on the inside. The last thing he wanted was Hermione Granger as his friend; sure, he was physically and mentally attracted to her, but she'd never go for someone twice her age. He remembered every mean, degrading comment he'd spat at her and forced all his muscles to relax. He listened to her for a while before he lost interest. She never shifted her hand away from his, instead, she even _leaned _into him. Had he been "awake", he highly doubted that would have happened. A fabric rushed by. "Pardon me, dearie. He needs his draught." Poppy stepped closer, her footsteps heavy, and he felt the vial against his lips.

"So the lion fell in love with snake," Hermione sighed to herself once Poppy left. He wondered what that meant.


	9. Chapter 9

Sweet Daddy Professor

Nine

Home

Albus and Minerva informed him that Slughorn had substituted for Severus's class, much to his dismay, while he slept for several days, his body forcing him to stay asleep. Throughout the course of a week, he tossed and turned and woke only half-way, listening to the comings and goings of the infirmary. Minerva visited briefly, read him a passage out of the Bible—he remembered, distinctly, thinking, _a religious witch, what irony, _as he laughed internally—as did Albus, who left him a basket of assorted sweets (the sour ones, of course) and cards from students.

The highlight, however, of his sleep was the quiet, for the most part. He didn't hear the baritone chimes of his clock down in his quarters; he wasn't jarred awake by squealing children while he fell asleep in his stockroom; and, better yet, he dreamt dreamlessly. No dreams, no _nightmares_. He didn't wake, soaked in sweat with Li—_her _name on his tongue; he didn't jerk awake from a memory of Tobias striking his mother, and then him, blood in his mouth; he didn't relive dying, boiling venom coursing through his veins as Nagini slithered away to wrap herself around her master, his skin as white as parchment. It was blissful, sweet darkness, endless. Delicious oblivion.

One afternoon, Hermione dropped by, Wuthering Heights tucked under her arm. She was dressed in a muted brown sweater and un ugly denim skirt that swirled around her ankles noisily. Her wild curls were pulled back with a bandana, a mass of hair hanging down her back like a giant puffball.

He hadn't been expecting her, so he couldn't exactly fake sleeping as he ate his soup gingerly.

Despite being in the infirmary for half a week, he wasn't permitted to return to his work until he'd been cleared with Poppy, and _that _wasn't going to happen until she was one hundred percent that he wasn't going to pass out.

"Glad to see you're feeling better, Severus," the bushy-haired know-it-all told him, far too polite considering the last time they spoke, when he yelled at her and reminded her that he didn't need her, want her in any way because he still carried Lily in his heart and he'd never want or need or touch or think of Hermione in the same regard; she'd never live up to Lily.

"Humph," he grunted, setting the spoon down with a clatter as he reclined back into the mountain of over-fluffed pillows and stared her down over his nose.

She sat in her chair, back straight, and smiled, her eyes meeting his boldly.

Surprised laced with anger licked his body in flames. The long rays of light that pooled in from the huge, arched windows caught her hair and turned the mass of ringlets honey-gold instead of milky chocolate. He blinked a few times, and with every flash of the back of his eyelids, he saw Lily, smiling gently, her hair as red as fire, her eyes so gentle.

"I need my sleep," he lied through his teeth and laid back down, feeling his stomach burn. _She's not Lily, you stupid bastard. _

Hermione seemed to be at a loss for words, but finally, he heard the rustle of fabric, a muted scrape, and soft footfalls.

_Good going, Severus. You screwed up yet again. _He ground his teeth and waited for Poppy, aching for the potion to stop his thoughts from drowning him. Teetering between the black void of self-loathing and anger at Hermione Granger for interfering in his life, he lay there, his thoughts half-baked and floating around inside his skull.

Eventually, Poppy checked in on him and he, albeit a bit _too _desperately, took the bottle and threw back the contents, far too eager. The potion slid into his mouth, slimy and warm from sitting in the sun-lit backroom for hours on end, and he wiped his lips.

"Christ," he muttered as he set the vial down gingerly. "Can't you add some flavored extract? Or, at the very least, keep it decently chilled?"

Poppy leveled a glare at him as she snatched up the vial sharply and turned away.

He snorted to himself as he clasped his hands on his stomach and stared up at the ceiling, his thoughts rolling over and over inside his brain, while he waited for the potion to kick in. He kept thinking about Hermione, and little Tristan's face, nestled against her shoulder, pooling drool. _No, stop it. She's half your age, and she thinks you're a git, like everyone else. _He ground his teeth and carefully dredged up every horrible memory he could think of: the taste of blood in his cheek, the sting of his bruises, the laughter of his peers when the Marauders stripped him of his robes, Lily's cruel words after he called her Mudblood.

Finally, the Dreamless Draught slugged through his veins, pulling him under.

oOo

A few weeks of being spoon-fed Dreamless Draught and he was ready to crawl into his own sheets, cool and silver, to sleep on his own, listening to the chime of his grandfather clock.

Of course, Albus made a big production of him staying until he was quite well, but Severus shrugged off the concerns and found himself back in his own chambers late into the Tuesday afternoon. On the rug by the floor sat a skinny house-elf, changing Tristan's diaper quietly while a stuffed elephant danced above him.

"Kitty."

The house-elf looked up quickly, startled, but quickly relaxed a bit once she realized it was just Severus. Cutting her eyes between father and son, she wiped the boy's bum clean and slid a clean nappy underneath him.

"Kitty is almost done, sir," she quipped as she wrapped the front around Tristan's groin and secured the sides with the tape.

Little Tristan kicked his legs eagerly, giggling, and Kitty helped the tot to his unsteady feet. Bubbles of saliva rolled down his chubby chin and stained the collar of his shirt. Once he spotted his father, he let out a short shriek and staggered forward as fast as his unsteady legs would allow him.

Severus dropped to one knee and scooped up his son, holding him against his hip once he got back to his feet. With only a short nod of thanks, he turned and inspected the numerous volumes in the bookcases while Kitty vanished with a muffled crack, back to the kitchens. Once they were alone, he peppered Tristan's warm face with kisses.

"I've missed you, sweet boy," he crooned and ran his fingers through the half-dry curls, feeling the downy softness. A puddle of drool wet his shoulder as Tristan gurgled happily. He felt his heart soaring, beating fast, filled with all the love he hadn't received as a child or as a young teenager, from Lily or his peers or even the Deatheaters. He nuzzled the downy curls of his son, the soft warm baby smell and milk, and pressed another kiss.

"You're such a good boy," he whispered, pressing his mouth against each pale violet eyelid, the blonde lashes flickering. "I love you so, so much." Pausing in familiarizing himself again with his son, he tore his eyes away and flicked them in the direction of the clock hanging above the fireplace.

Five minutes to dinner.

He drew Tristan's little torso into his muggle jumper and then cast a quick spell to dissipate the fire to wet coals. Tristan gurgled as he flapped his arms around, accidentally hitting Severus in the face. The man drew back, pressed a kiss to his son's chubby fist, and headed to the Great Hall, his robes billowing behind him.

A quick wave of his wand drew up his wards as he left and he wondered, absently, if Hermione would be there.


End file.
